<poem> The Glugs gaze up at the heights above, And feel vague promptings to wondrous love. And they whisper a tale of a tinker man, Who lives in the mount with his Emily Ann.
A great mother mountain, and kindly is she, Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea. And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap. Is a little red house with a little straw cap That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high, And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye. And the eyes of it glisten and shine in the sun, As they look down on Gosh with a twinkle of fun.
There's a gay little garden, a tidy white gate, And a narrow brown pathway that will not run straight; For it turns and it twists and it wanders about To the left and the right, as in humorous doubt. 'Tis a humorous path, and a joke from its birth Till it ends at the door with a wriggle of mirth. And here in the mount lives the queer tinker man With his little red dog and his Emily Ann.
And, once in a while, when the weather is clear, When the work is all over, and even is near, They walk in the garden and gaze down below On the Valley of Gosh, where the young rivers go;
